


and sleep comes to the weary

by thenightskysighs



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Canon, Post-Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenightskysighs/pseuds/thenightskysighs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For years, waking up to dark roaring of thunder and white streak lightening sent them into a frenzy of real or not real. Caused nightmares to turn violent in ways that crippled the two to the point of no return. Because weather could change, and suddenly they were 17 again, waiting for the chance to finally stare death in the face and ask why they were so necessary to his group of prisoners. </p><p>But now, after so many years, it's easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and sleep comes to the weary

**Author's Note:**

> nothing like trailer day to get you motivated! enjoy :)

At this time of the night, she's somewhat become accustom to waking up in a cold sweat. A strangled sob clawing its way up her throat. Her scattered memories that come in a flash of bright oranges and simmer in dark reds. But tonight, no tonight, she doesn't wake up from her nightmares, she wakes up to rumbling thunder that is making its presence known in the dark sky. She cringes before she catches herself when lightening cracks in the distance and the entire sky lights up like it's suddenly the middle of the day for just a fraction of a second. The rain begins to fall steadily in sheets, wavering from side to side, trying to keep up with the wind. 

Katniss sighs. Fiddles with the edge of the sheet before flipping on her side and watching the rise and fall of her husband's chest. She snorts, just for a moment, thinking how Peeta could probably sleep through an earthquake. 

Lightening sets the sky on fire again, and as if Peeta can read her thoughts and seeks to prove her wrong even in his sleep, he cracks open an eye, glances at the raindrops that are racing each other down the window pane, and mutters his incoherent sleep talk. He reaches for her waist, curling her body around his before he's out like a light again. Even snoring quietly in the crevice of her neck. 

For years, waking up to dark roaring of thunder and white streak lightening sent them into a frenzy of real or not real. Caused nightmares to turn violent in ways that crippled the two to the point of no return. Because weather could change, and suddenly they were 17 again, waiting for the chance to finally stare death in the face and ask why they were so necessary to his group of prisoners. 

But now, after so many years, it's easier. Not to say Katniss doesn't ever close her eyes and see sand and water and so much, so much blood. But it's rare. Now she sees the thunder as a release. The lightening, a cleansing and the rain, a birth. She runs her fingers through Peeta's hair when she finishes her thought, smiling ruefully. It's something he would say. They've been around each other far too long. 

She should sleep. She should bury her face in her husband's chest knowing that tomorrow the sun will rise above the storm clouds and she will continue her morning routine. Baker's hours and breakfast and school drop offs, and dare she forget to braid their daughter's hair lest they experience a full on teary-eyed explosion of stubborn rage that can only come from the daughter of Peeta and Katniss Mellark. 

But she's too caught up in her thoughts and too caught up in the comforting repetitive motion of her hand as it passes through Peeta's hair. White-hot fire cracks again, filling the room with light and Katniss realizes how fair her husband's hair has turned due to age. She found a grey hair in her own the other day and she almost laughed. She never imagined living long enough to grow grey streaks through her hair. But she is. And she's thankful. 

This comforting movement finally rouses Peeta from his slumber. 

"Katniss," his voice is thick with sleep and she finds that she never quite has got tired of hearing his voice in this raspy state, no matter how old they are. He reaches his arm over her body, blindly reaching for the clock that sits on the stand on her side of the bed. "It's 3 AM." 

"I know. The storm woke me." She settles into the space he creates with his arm and she sighs, feeling his warmth roll over her like a wave. "I can't sleep." 

Peeta brushes his thumb over the worry lines that have tattooed themselves onto her forehead. "You're thinking too much." He sighs, a laugh rumbling in his rib cage almost as deep as the thunder that sits outside their window. 

She scowls, because he always sees right through her. 

Then, the storm outside crashes in anger. Thunder shakes the window frames, scattering the raindrops. Lightening cracks through the house and she knows it's awoken the children before she even hears their tiny little feet hit the floorboards. 

For the longest time, she thought she would be a horrible mother. That she would turn around and the poor innocent child would fall off a chair and hit their head, or she would say the wrong thing and make them cry. But now, she wonders how she was ever anything _but_ a mother. Her entire world now revolves around grins full of missing teeth, and features that she can pinpoint on Peeta that their children have inherited. And not to mention how her greatest worry seems to be finding enough room to place all their drawings and notes (because they inherited that from their father, of course, also) and little I love you, mama notes with crooked E's and backward L's that she wouldn't trade for anything in this new post-war world that is still enjoying its new found freedom. 

"Uh-oh." Peeta lets out. At this point, you would have to be deaf to not hear the loud crashing feet of their daughter who cannot for the life of her, be silent. "The little monsters are up." Katniss laughs a belly laugh, her eyes shining in the darkness. Because it's true. Of course they would have the most rambunctious children to ever walk the earth, however having a baker for a father doesn't help the sugar situation. 

But like she's always been told, their daughter knocks like a good little girl. 

"Mama?" A tiny little voice comes through the door and Katniss' heart swells just a little, like it always does when she hears the soft squeakiness of their daughter's voice. "Can I come in?" 

"Come on in." Peeta answers. His chest vibrates with laughter as their dark haired little bird runs up to the biggy bed (as the children have deemed it), her little brother following quietly behind her. He and Katniss are the only ones in the Mellark house that share the trait of a soft tread. He patiently awaits to be helped onto the mattress, his tiny toddler arms waiting for his mother to scoop down and wrap her arms around him. She catches a whiff of that precious baby smell that is waning every day her last little baby is becoming a little man. 

Peeta lets an oof, their daughter landing haphazardly in a mess of limbs and hair on his chest. Her innocent laughter bounces off the walls and ricochets off the objects that decorate the room and Katniss so desperately wants to replay that precious sound of happiness that flows from her daughter's mouth like honey. She wants to hear it for the rest of her life. She never wants to leave this bed. This bed where her Peeta came back to her, where they discovered each other in ways that patched their wounds and anchored themselves to one another. Where their children, oh, her little precious babies were conceived and born. This bed that is burdened down with nightmares and tears and bursting at the seams with joy and laughter that echoes throughout the dimensions of their little lifetime. Their safe little cocoon. Protecting them from the dark and the creatures under the bed and the monsters in the closet. Even the big angry man in the sky throwing rocks. (Or, as their first born so thoughtfully put it as she settled into her father's lap.) 

"How about we go to the meadow tomorrow?" Katniss whispers, catching the attention of her oldest. The little girl shrieks with joy and Katniss laughs at Peeta's expression of mock pain, her scream right next to his ear. 

"And have a picnic?!" Her little bird vibrates with excitement and Katniss nods, grinning. 

"And if you're good we may go to the lake. I've been meaning to teach you how to swim." At this point, the child could not be happier, and she jumps from Peeta's lap to wrap her chubby little arms around her mother's neck. 

"T'ank you, Mama!" She still has not mastered her grammar, and sometimes Karniss wishes she never would. Just to hear her little girl's voice catch on certain words never ceases to bring a smile to her face. It's almost like her own little language. 

Katniss returns the kiss her daughter gave to her in thanks. And then, as always she begins to rattle away at their nightly routine of good nights--which has already been said considering they went to sleep over 6 hours ago, truly but the child cannot sleep until it is done--A goodnight to brother (or, bruther, obviously in the little girl's language), goodnight to mama, and last but most certainly not least, Daddy who patiently awaits his goodnight kiss and returns it with tickles that quickly turn into shrieks. 

Katniss gives Peeta a peck, and swats him on the chest when he playfully tries to deepen it. His chuckle still makes her cheeks burn, even after all these years. 

How their son managed to fall asleep during his sister's noise, she'll never know but she kisses him anyway and adjusts his curls behind his ear. 

Soon enough, the children settle into slumber. Their daughter wrapped around her father's torso like a vine determined to grow up a wall. Her little boy sleeps in the small space between his parents. Her children, so deliciously oblivious to pain. Their biggest fear a thunderstorm that has begun to slow its terror as they sleep through the after effects. 

Peeta glances at his wife, who stares at their children like they may disappear at any moment. His heart breaks for her, because he knows she will never really stop believing someone will try to take him and their children away from her. He places his hand on her cheek, careful to not jostle the warm little girl on his chest. 

"Sleep, Katniss." She smiles at him. That small, grateful smile that she only reserves for him. That smile that sends a thousand chills down his spine every time she graces him with it. 

She does.


End file.
